Molly crouched behind the inflatable bounce house, examining the floor plan she'd sketched on a napkin. The Henderson residence stretched before them like an unsecured vault filled with unwrapped merchandise and negligent parents. "So here's the thing," Bill whispered, adjusting his fake mustache. "The presents are stacked by the garage door. We go in through the kitchen, past the face painter, and—" "And what about the piñata?" Molly interrupted. "That thing's a choking hazard. We should avoid it." Bill nodded seriously, as if they were discussing actual security measures rather than a birthday party for seven-year-olds. They'd stolen from museums, banks, and art galleries. Somehow this felt more chaotic. A child's scream echoed from inside. Not a frightened scream, just a regular birthday party scream. They watched as Mrs. Henderson emerged with juice boxes, completely oblivious to the criminal masterminds hiding in her bushes. "The window latch is broken," Molly observed, pointing with professional precision. "Perfect. We go in fast, grab the boxes, exit through the side fence. Easy." Bill checked his watch. Molly rolled her eyes. Nothing about stealing from children's parties was easy. But the Tickle-Me-Elmo collection alone was worth fifty grand on the black market.